


A Red Ball

by Kirito_Potter



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Autism, Character Study, Gen, Watford (Simon Snow)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-14
Updated: 2019-05-14
Packaged: 2020-03-05 11:10:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18827473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kirito_Potter/pseuds/Kirito_Potter
Summary: If he throws that bloody ball one more time, I'm actually going to kill him.





	A Red Ball

**BAZ**

  


If he throws that bloody ball one more time, I'm actually going to kill him.

 

He's been playing with it since I met him, and it's driving me mad. These have been the longest two days of my life.

 

Simon Snow is the worst roommate I could have hoped for. Worse, actually-- I don't think I could have imagined someone so annoying. He can't sit without bouncing his leg, and his nails are bitten down to the quick (both unsanitary and probably painful). Not to mention he never shuts up about his new sword. It's all “Look at the engravings!” and “See how shiny it is! I can see my reflection!” and “You know, I was reading up, and this is actually one of the best kinds of metals for--” blah, blah, blah. Always with that same giant grin and his shiny eyes. It's ridiculous how excited he gets about a stupid hunk of steel.

 

I glance his way.

 

Now he's taken to throwing that dirty red ball against the wall and catching it, which is worse than just tossing it in the air because of the loud thump every time.

 

Throw. Bounce. Catch. Throw. Bounce. Catch. Throw. Bounce. Catch.

 

“Snow,” I growl, and he falters mid-throw. The ball tumbles from his fingers and bounces sadly a few times before rolling a couple more centimeters. He looks at me with wide caught-in-the-headlights eyes, all blue and shining and innocent. Merlin's beard, is he always like this?

 

“What's wrong?” He asks. I'm astounded by how quickly he reaches for the cross around his neck and pops it in his mouth to chew on. He's only just stopped playing with the ball, can't he sit still for five seconds?

 

I roll my eyes. “I just needed you to stop for a moment. I couldn't hear myself think.”

 

He tilts his head to the side. (What is he, a puppy?) “Which… what do you mean?”

 

Throwing an arm over my eyes, I lie down on my bed, legs still hanging off the edge. “The ball, Snow. Can't you put it down for a few minutes? Go do something productive.”

 

I can't see him, but he makes a little noise. “Um… but… I mean, you don't-- I was--”

 

“Spit it out,” I hiss. If the ball is annoying, his inability to string together cohesive sentences is infuriating.

 

He pauses for a moment, and I can hear him muttering to himself. Then, “It helps.”

 

I lift my arm so he can see me arch my brow. “What?”

 

“The ball,” he mumbles. “It helps me focus. Otherwise, there's-- there's--” he stops, maybe to regain his train of thought. He mouths thoughtfully at the cross. “It's too much. Everything's confusing. The ball helps me focus.”

 

I snort. “Of course everything's confusing-- you act like you've never been in the real world before.” I sit up again. “Is it true you were raised by Normals?”

 

He nods, cross glinting.

 

“Do most Normals do that?” I ask, pointing at the discarded ball.

 

He shakes his head, cheeks starting to redden. “No, but, uh, it's… better than punching walls. Which I'm not supposed to do anymore.”

 

Interesting. Now we're getting somewhere. “So... what, you're hyperactive? Twiddle your thumbs or something.” Then I can actually sleep at night.

 

He frowns at me like I've said something highly offensive. “It's not like that. I need to-- I need to do something with my hands.”

 

“That is doing something with your hands.”

 

“No, I mean--” he growls, face twisting. “You can't just--”

 

I cross my arms, waiting for him to finish his thought.

 

Instead, he leans down and scoops up the ball. He flops down onto his bed and starts throwing towards the ceiling.

 

Throw. Bounce.

 

_Catch._

 

It hits me then, something I had noticed only subconsciously. The moment he catches the ball, it's like a weight is lifted from my shoulders-- and his, judging by the little sigh that leaves him. The air feels clearer, and I swear someone's cast a **cool your jets** because I didn't realise how sweltering it was in here.

 

Throw. Bounce. Catch.

 

When it hits his palm, the tension in the room lessens even further.

 

Throw. Bounce. Catch.

 

I don't understand. How is this having an effect on me, too? He said it helped him focus, but why is it just as much of a relief to me?

 

It's only when the air shimmers that it all clicks.

 

His magic is filling the room, suffocating me with its hot prickle and pressing force, like it's taken on a solid form and is trying to press me into the floor. But every time he catches the ball, it retreats into him, shining on his skin.

 

I'd heard his magic was strange. I had no idea what that meant. But here's the proof. I've been riling him up for a few minutes, berating and interrogating him, making his magic leak into the room. And he was telling the truth; the ball helps. If it's his discomfort and stress that makes magic build up, then somehow this ball is relaxing him, helping him feel at peace.

 

I hesitate. “Snow?”

 

Throw. Bounce. Catch. “Yes?”

 

Swallowing, I ask carefully, “you know how your magic sort of… leaks?”

 

Throw. Bounce. Catch. “Yes.”

 

“What happens if that continues?”

 

Throw. Bounce. Catch. “I explode a little, I think.”

 

I falter. “A little?”

 

Throw. Bounce. Catch. “Sort of. I haven't hurt anyone yet, though.”

 

Yet? Meaning he could?

 

As much as I don't really understand it...

 

Maybe I'll let him keep the ball.


End file.
